The Writings of Lucas J Burford

What Readers Feel

A Short Story: I’m not a boy’s fantasy, I’m just a girl in a room. No wonder. The type of boy I’d like to meet would like the smell of bleach on my fingers because somehow my mother left her imprint on me, and honestly, I can’t stand the smell of it.

A Story For The Loved and Missed: Her eyes were shadowed tender like a fall moons mist, the leaves of summer relaxed and began to brown. An enchantment of a girl that my heart wouldn't dismiss, a sullen truth in her thoughts about love always bound.

A Short Story: My street value has the worth of my expired bus pass, that I found. On the ground. That I sold to a tourist, I think. I can’t really be sure because I never saw him before. I really have let myself go.

An Essay: Masculinity in definition is having qualities appropriate to or usually associated with a man. Explaining masculinity in a growing culture of thought policed censorship among extremist feminists or gender neutral males will cause a biased offense towards any group or single person that doesn’t understand what it means to be masculine. It was never quiet in any man’s thoughts throughout the centuries that women are undoubtedly tough as men. Men were built through a battering of situations that needed us to protect and be strong, but, one act that is impossible for men and is owned by women as one of the most beautiful, painful, and strength enduring acts which is, creating life. This isn’t the only thing woman are incredible at, but this isn’t about you, it’s about men. If offense is taken to female readers, then you are the worst part of your species in this moment of male judgement, because, this is not for you.

A Short Story: The surface is a distraction, that I don’t care for. The skin of others I’d tear off if I was an animal. I’m hungry for this. This thin moment of life. These variations of the same people built around insecurity and defense mechanisms of their own afflicted abuse. It’s hard for me, living, around these bodies.

An Essay: No Prostitutes, no drugs, and something else I can't remember. I saw this on a sign at the only place in LA that would take me, The Olive Motel, my favorite place in Los Angeles. What can I say, the neon glowing sign of despair pulled me right in.

An Essay: At this moment I am the best variation of myself. How I think and how I act, how I listen and speak, and how I am to others. Well, most others, because sometimes a middle finger needs to be the middle finger, attached to a sledgehammer. It's satisfying to pick a fight, or finish one, especially with yourself, but that's love isn't it.

Fiction: Secure your derailment for mental insanity or artistic visionary. This is what it’s about, this reality of your world as you experience it. Be a man. When you don’t understand something, kill it.